His Pointless Letter
by amyniknak
Summary: Dead people can't read letters. So why does Dr. Cox find himself writing to Ben?


Disclaimer: I do not own Scrubs. More's the pity.

A/N: I had this idea late last night, so stayed up writing it! And by the way, I haven't seen the episodes My Screw Up and My Tormented Mentor in a while so if some details aren't right, that's why. Anyway, enjoy the story! And please review!

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Ben,

I can't believe I'm even doing this. Writing a letter to someone who died over three years ago. Anyone would think I was some kind of sentimental religious weirdo who truly believes that they'll meet their dead friend again in heaven or wherever. But I'm not like that. I know you're worm food.

Anyway, back to why I'm writing this. I don't know. Death's been on a lot of people's minds around here lately. Laverne died you see. She was a nurse at the hospital, I don't know if you'd remember her. Well, no-one ever expected her to die. With you, it kinda flashed across all of our minds when we heard the word leukaemia, but she died after a car accident, so it was a huge shock to everyone, particularly Carla. So just today, she was crying about Laverne, and no-one really knew what to do; should we hug her, should we tell her lies about how Laverne's in a better place etc. It was awkward, I can tell you that. But then Newbie said one thing. He asked Carla what she would want to say to Laverne if she was still here, something to do with getting your emotions out and dealing with it, or some other psycho drabble like that. But it got everyone thinking about people they'd lost, and I thought of you.

So I'm sat here on the couch, a cold glass of Scotch in my hand, and I'm writing this letter to you. It's late right now. Jordan and the kids are asleep, finally. Jack likes to stay up all night to play with his various plastic G.I Joes and Power Rangers, and screams if we try to settle him down, and Jenny, well, she's just a baby, so what do you expect? I wish you'd got to meet her. Jordan says she looks like me, so she's a lucky gal. But seriously though, she's beautiful. She's perfect. Lovely curls, a tiny little mouth, and I hate to say it, but when she takes hold of my finger in her tiny little hand, something happens inside of me that changes me into a completely different person. I can see myself in ten years time, arguing with her over whether she should get her belly button pierced to look like the latest Hilton/Lohan/Spears/Richie clone, but I know I'll always see her as my little girl, my perfect little baby.

Wow, I'm getting all emotional there. All these thoughts about life and death. It's all so fragile. And though I never will believe in any kind of superior being/deity, it does feel as of it's all out of my hands sometimes. Like when you died, I needed someone to blame so badly. It hurt too much to blame myself, because that would mean it was my fault, I killed you, so I took all my anger out on newbie. Poor kid. Ridiculous really. He didn't cause your disease. There wasn't some huge red button labelled "Press to terminate Ben Sullivan's life" that he leant on by accident. You had leukaemia. You died of heart failure. There was nothing anyone could have done. It wasn't that you weren't strong. The cancer was just stronger.

My God, Ben, I really am getting choked up now. I need more Scotch. There, that's better. What am I even going to do with this letter once it's finished? Tie it to a balloon like a cliché, and let it float into the clouds? No way. Take it to your grave along with a bunch of flowers, and a note saying "Miss you always"? So not me. Although I have been to your grave before. On my own, on your birthday. I didn't try to talk to you. After all, research has conclusively proved that dead people don't hear, and even if they could they'd have significant difficulty responding. I just sat there. Remembering. Wishing that just for one second I could see you again, to tell you how proud of you I am. I know I'm just you friend – was just your friend. But you fought that disease in your own way. You didn't let it stop you. Most people would have rolled over and let it all engulf them, but you didn't, you showed that leukaemia who was boss. You went off to travel the world, do what you wanted to do. The one thing I've always been scared of. Doing what I want to do. And when your time came, I am positive that you went down fighting. And I couldn't be more proud of you.

It's weird, I never thought I'd be so close to you when we first met. I was so nervous that day. Meeting Jordan's family. By that time, a few months into our relationship, I knew we had something special. Something unconventionally charming. Something exciting. That was what terrified me so much about meeting her family. It seemed like such a normal thing to do, and everything about my relationship with Jordan was so crazily insane, I mean come on, if we hadn't been so attracted to each other we would probably have wound up murdering each other. Anyway, I knocked on the door, and you answered. And that completely threw me. I had been counting on your mom answering the door, as I knew exactly what I was going to say, it was all rehearsed, but I had never thought her older brother would answer. What would I have to say to convince you I was right for your little sister? Every little insecurity I'd ever had about myself suddenly flew to the front of my mind. Would I be able to not be too sarcastic for the duration of the evening? What if the whole family were Republicans? Was my hair too springy...?

But then you patted my shoulder, and said hey, and that I must be Perry, and it all sounded so formal that I had to laugh, and you laughed too, and everything fell into place. We were best friends. I relaxed after that, and as you know, we spent the whole evening drinking your dead father's whisky and shooting pool in the basement, while Jordan, your mom and Danni scrutinised my every move. And I didn't care. I knew they would like the real me, or at least tolerate me. I mean, her protective elder brother accepted me, and that overruled all of their negative feelings towards you. So thanks for that, Ben. If it wasn't for you, me and Jordan might not have lasted this far. Twenty years is a long time. It was after that night that I knew we'd last the distance. It was after that night that I'd stop outside jewellery stores, not to laugh at the extortionate prices as usual, but to consider which ring I could use one day to make Jordan my wife.

Don't ever tell her how I feel though. That would be just wrong. Not that you can tell her. You're dead. I still can't accept that you're not here, even after three years. It's just that you were so full of life when you were alive that its hard to accept you as gone. I never told anyone this, but just after you died, I could have sworn you were still there. You were walking, you were talking. I could see you, I could hear you. Yep, you got it, Cox was cracking up. But I wasn't imagining it. You were there. It was only after the funeral, when I could see that framed black and white photo positioned on top of your coffin that it all became real. And all of a sudden, there were tears tricking down my cheeks, Jordan was holding me, Newbie had his hand on my shoulder, the priest was saying your name, he kept calling you Benjamin, and it made no sense, I never knew you as Benjamin, you were always Ben.

The funeral really was a complete and utter hell. There was so much emotion coming at me from all sides, and even when I shut my eyes and tried to block it all out, I couldn't stop myself. I knew I was going to fall, end up surrendering myself to it all. You know me Ben, I hate emotion, I hate showing my feelings. To me it's a sign of weakness. And when you're weak, you're not bullet-proof. And I like to be bullet-proof. That's why when something goes wrong, if a chink in my armour lets something through, I pretty much break down. Like when I lost those three patients last year. I knew the second I began to blame myself there would be no going back, but I didn't care. Nothing mattered. Three patients were dead. All because I was obsessed with trying to be a superhero. But you see Ben, I'm not. A superhero. I never was one. I'm just a man who happens to work in a hospital, where sometimes I save people. I think that's why I became a doctor though, and why I'm still a doctor now, even though I pretend I hate it. The high you get from saving someone's life cannot be bought from some shady dealer. But I got addicted, and have been ever since. So when I can't get my fix, if in my mind, it's my fault that I don't get my fix, I completely shut down. I'm making myself sound like one of those pathetic addicts I despise so much, who say they've given up but really want nothing more than to inject themselves with their drug of choice. But anyway, I realise I am one. And as much as that sickens me, I know its true. And I'm somewhat proud of myself for admitting it. Accepting things you've always tried to deny is hard. I accept I need the hospital. If it wasn't there for me, I don't know. I guess I'd be so different.

Anyway Ben, it's really late now. I can't see the clock, but I'm guessing early hours of the morning. I should get some sleep. I've wasted enough valuable time writing this letter, a letter no-one will ever read. But have I? Wasted time? I guess that's debatable. I feel different somehow. Lighter. Free. Dammit, Ben, even in death, you are still the King of Gay Chicken.

You're still here aren't you.

Perry.


End file.
